


the dreamer's purpose

by sad_clown_hours



Series: you, but in westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Theon Greyjoy is not nice, the beginning of season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_clown_hours/pseuds/sad_clown_hours
Summary: The king arrives and winter looms ever closer. Seriously, what are you supposed to do about any of it when you're stuck trying to clean up after Arya Stark?
Relationships: Jon Snow & Original Female Character(s), Jon Snow & Reader, Tyrion Lannister & Reader
Series: you, but in westeros [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1468123
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	the dreamer's purpose

**Author's Note:**

> please note that there is a scene in this chapter which depicts violence, attempted non-con, and misogynistic attitudes/language. if that is not your thing, i will put asterisks before and after the scene in question so that you can avoid it.

The book of dreamers taunts you sometimes at night. The linens that are provided to you are warm enough, but scratchy, and both of these things prevent you from sleeping. 

You have definitely reached a sort of normal here; you attend Arya’s lessons in the mornings, and have time to yourself in the afternoon, most of which you spend with Jon. The rest you spend poring through Winterfell’s extensive library or actively avoiding Theon Greyjoy, who seems to be purposely trying to bump into you around the castle. You rarely see Lord Stark except in passing. The same can be said for Lady Stark and her youngest children, who tend to cluster around their mother. Sansa is present at Arya’s lessons as well, but you had forgotten how bratty she is at this point in the plot, and she looks at you with thinly veiled disdain due to your low status. So really, it’s Arya and Jon who you hang around with. That is, disregarding the chaos of the castle since the announcement of King Robert’s retinue, which has thrown your whole routine.

But even though this constitutes a new normal, you find yourself missing home. The technologies, for one. Flushing toilets are sorely missed, as well as regular hot showers, though the hot springs outside the walls of the castle are a decent substitute. However, it’s the people you miss the most. Your parents. Your friends. Even the random acquaintances you went to school with. At least you fit in with them to some extent. Here, your extensive knowledge of modern American culture is only a burden. 

Well, sometimes. Sometimes the stories that you liked so much to read and watch are rather useful. Arya is hungry for tales of knights and fighting and adventures, and you find that she can be convinced to focus on her work when promised another installment of whatever she’s been fascinated with lately. You were able to summon up a decent recollection of Harry Potter that she eagerly devoured. You also have been telling her the goriest and grossest Greek myths in the hopes of sating her bloodlust. Edgar Allan Poe’s creepy stories make an appearance, but usually later at night, when the only light in the godswood is a lantern and the wind whistles eerily through the trees. Occasionally you are able to recall a Shakespearean subplot that can persuade Arya to focus on her numbers. Well, that, and a promise of more practice with Jon later in the day.

Sometimes Jon listens in too. Mostly with polite interest, although you catch him a few times hiding an amused grin. He doesn’t ask how you know all of these stories, which is a blessing, because what would you say then? Jon simply listens, and you find a comfortable companionship with him without having to explain everything. 

So really, given the circumstances, you are coping rather well. But your existence here feels fundamentally odd. You are not meant to be here, but there must be some sort of a reason for your travel between universes. This has been weighing on you: if you are somehow meant to be here, then what are you meant to do? You, with your knowledge of how everything plays out? How are you supposed to alter the timeline, and why? Are you supposed to alter it? Or just bear witness? 

Daenys’ book doesn’t hold a whole lot of answers either. You have spent hours combing through it, because it really seemed promising the first night in the library. But it mostly just reiterates the same crap about the dreamers’ ability to change the future. Which you vaguely think applies to you, but can’t figure out a reason why. So you’ve held on to the book, just in case you stumble upon some revelation that gives you clarity. You’ll find it, you know (hope). You just have to bide your time. 

Given the upcoming excitement, it’s no surprise that Jon has been making himself scarce. Lady Stark probably doesn’t want him anywhere near the royal party when it comes. You would be concerned about him, but you frankly have been only barely suppressing your own sense of dread at the impending plotlines that are soon to occur. Stomach-churning anxiety on top of the menial work and babysitting expected of you as a member of the household, plus trying to coax Jon into being less moody? No thanks. You can stick to your own problems for now. If only you had time to think. 

“Nymeria! Nymeria, sit!” Arya demands. She crouches down to Nymeria’s eyeline. “I said, sit!”

Nymeria meets Arya’s glare with a blank gaze, still standing. Arya huffs impatiently and kneels in the dirt. 

“Arya, don’t do that,” you reprimand. “I don’t want to have to clean that dress again.” Seriously. The girl is chronically dirty. Plus, she is constantly tearing her clothing. You’ve had to get really good at sewing in order to keep up with her. 

“Fine,” she huffs. She plops onto the ground. Surprisingly, Nymeria mirrors her movements. 

“Good girl!” Arya exclaims, and buries her face in Nymeria’s fur. Nymeria, for her part, nuzzles her snout into Arya’s shoulder. The exchange of affection is almost enough to make you forget that this is a wild animal and not a dog. That is, until Nymeria leaps away and chases after a passing hare. 

“Nymeria!” Arya calls. “Come back here!” 

Nymeria has the good graces to turn back and very nearly shrug as if to say, “What can I do?” The look she gives Arya is enough to make the girl huff and wave her hand, dismissing her wolf. Nymeria bounds into the woods. 

“I always worry she won’t come back,” Arya laments, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes as she stands from her kneel in the dirt. Ugh. The whole skirt of her dress will have to be scrubbed clean. Your hands are raw from all the lye soap you’ve been using to keep her looking somewhat presentable. 

“She’ll come back,” you say absently. Your hands are almost numb from the brisk air, so you rub them against your skirts in the hopes of using the woollen friction to warm them up. It almost works. “You’re connected to her. You’re a Stark. Your ancestors ran with wolves.”

Arya scoffs and scuffs her boots in the mud. “I wish I was a wolf. I wouldn’t have to be such a lady then.”

“Do you realize how much your parents let you do?” you ask. You were raised to go to school, play instruments, maybe join an extracurricular sport. Arya gets to do goddamn archery. She may have to do the typically feminine stuff, sure, but she also gets to learn actually practical skills. “I never learned half of what you can do.”

She gives you a dirty look. “But your mother doesn’t yell at you for doing things that you shouldn’t. You get to go off with Jon and learn how to use a knife, but I can’t even get away from Septa long enough to join you!”

This is true. While you had extended the offer of training to Arya, she could not often find time to train with Jon the way that you could. You, after all, don’t really report to anyone in particular; your role is mainly to keep Arya somewhat in line. A job that you seem to perform quite admirably despite your charge’s exceedingly obstinate nature. But when Arya is under the watch of her Septa, you can claim to have other duties, and meet Jon in the Wolfswood to practice self-defense. It does sting, though, the reminder of your mother. You may have been at odds sometimes, but you miss her. You miss having someone of your own. Here, everyone is practically a stranger, even the ones you know better than others. What use is knowing others well if they cannot know you as well as you want them to?

“My mother is gone.” Though your tone is firm, you don’t mean to shame her. After all, there was no way she could know. Arya turns her head to the ground remorsefully. 

“Sorry,” she mutters. To others the apology would seem insincere, but you know enough of her character to know that it is awkwardness and nothing more. 

“It’s alright,” you reply brightly in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come on. It’s almost suppertime, and you need to get out of those skirts before Lady Stark sees you like this.” You stick out your hand, and Arya looks up before taking it and very nearly hopping forward in excitement for dinner. Right on cue, Nymeria emerges from the forest, muzzle coated in blood. 

“She might need some cleaning too,” Arya admits.

You sigh. Like wolf, like Arya, you suppose.   
\---

It’s a bitter, brisk day when the king’s retinue arrives at Winterfell, and your hands will not stop trembling. Though you know logically that there is little you can do at this point in time, it doesn’t stop a sense of guilt from flooding through you. Do you let Bran fall, knowing what he will become? Or is it too risky to alter events this early in the game? What good is your knowledge of the future, truly, if different events come to pass?

Another thing that worries you is Theon Greyjoy, who has taken to purposefully bumping into you in the hallways and watching you when he thinks you can’t see him. He makes excuses to talk to you that you try to brush off, but he won’t take a damn hint. Your refusal to entertain his nonsense seems to feed into his need to feel superior over anyone he deems lower than himself. The looks he sends you only become more heated as the days pass, and his comments grow more and more suggestive. At what point is a girl allowed to tell a high lord to fuck off? 

File that sentence under those you never imagined you’d think. What a strange life you find yourself living. 

\---

You’re scrubbing the dirt out of Arya’s skirts again, and goddamnit you are really starting to understand why Catelyn Stark gets pissed at Arya for horsing around all the time. It’s bad enough that Arya runs you ragged trying to keep up during the day. Cleaning her woollen skirts with nothing but some scratchy soap and your hands? Totally out of your pay grade- if you were getting paid. Which you are not.

And it’s not like your work is in a bright, airy space in the castle. You’re relegated to the dank underbelly of Winterfell that no one really sees on the show. This is where the servants work, in humid, stuffy, dark chambers that the highborn probably don’t even know exist. You try not to spend too much time down here, because to be honest, every second you spend down here makes you hate the Starks and the classist system they support, even though it’s technically not their fault and you are literally dependent on their kindness for your livelihood. So yeah, it’s depressing and gross and so not up to OSHA’s standards, but you’ll deal.

You sing as you work. Ironically enough, the only song in your head as you slave away is A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes from Cinderella. Funny, how the brain works. 

That’s where you are when you hear a scuffling behind you. You put down the soap and wipe your hands on your skirts before turning around.

“My lord,” you say cautiously. Theon Greyjoy, hovering in the doorway, giving you an odd look. 

“That’s a pretty song,” he says. “Never heard it before.” You try to smile but you probably give off more of a “don’t touch me or I’ll call the cops” vibe. Except there are no cops you can call. Fuck.

“Thanks,” you say, fidgeting under his stare. He’s- well, he’s not quite grinning, but most certainly smirking in a way that puts you on edge. You take an unconscious step back. He takes one forward. 

“What do you want?” You blurt out. He raises an eyebrow, displeased. 

“What do you want, my lord.” 

“My lord,” you amend hastily. 

“I want a lot of things,” he says. He takes another step toward you. You can’t help but flinch away. Every instinct you have is telling you to run, but your feet are glued to the floor. 

“Look, I’m, like, really busy right now so-”

************

Within a split second, Theon is there, so so so close, and your body finally decides to respond to your fear. You back away, but you hit the counter. There’s nowhere to go. He boxes you in. Your heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. 

“What are you-”

Theon takes your face in his hands and covers your mouth with his. It’s not pleasant. His breath stinks of onions and booze and he reeks of B.O. You push against his chest in vain to escape from his embrace. This only makes him pull you closer, his right hand roaming over your breast and down your hip. There’s only one direction this is headed, and it isn’t good. This can’t be real. You wriggle against him, but this only seems to encourage him. Either he thinks you like this, or he gets off on you fighting back.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth. Without thinking, you immediately bite down on his tongue. Theon recoils, blood dripping from both your mouth and his, and there’s a brief moment of pause in which you mirror each other in shock. He recovers quicker than you, though, and backhands you.

“Fucking cunt,” Theon spits. Blood and saliva land on your cheek. He has your wrists in his hands now as you desperately try to break free. “I was trying to be good to you, but if you want to be treated like a whore, then so be it.” 

He twists your wrists over your head in one hand and covers your mouth with the other as he flips you onto your stomach over the counter. You’re flailing wildly in his grasp, like a wounded animal. You’ve never felt more vulnerable than you feel right now. You try to scream but sound won’t come out. 

“What, you let a bastard fuck you, didn’t you?” he jeers, removing his hand from your mouth to grab a handful of your hair. “What’s so special about Snow that he’s the only one who gets a turn, eh? Surely a whore like you can’t be picky.”

You and your goddamn mouth. This is the absolute worst possible time, but he makes it too easy. You spit out a mouthful of his blood, his hands entwined in your hair, and you just can’t keep your stupid mouth shut.

“I do have standards, you know,” you bite out.

Theon roughly shoves your head into the wood of the counter when you try to lift it, leaving you dizzy and in pain. You can feel him, pressed up against you, and panic consumes you, this can’t be happening you have to get out this has to be a dream-

************

“You know, the lady is supposed to be screaming in pleasure, not pain,” a voice says. “If you have to force her then you’re doing something wrong.”

The voice is familiar. In your fog, you struggle to place it. Whoever it is, the mere sight of him must frighten Theon, because he lets go of his grip on you and backs away. You stumble away from the counter, gasping for breath. Your vision is blurry. You hold onto the counter for support as you lower yourself to the ground. Fucking ouch. 

“My lord,” Theon stutters. “I was just-” 

“I don’t care what you were just, Greyjoy,” the voice replies in a bored tone. “Leave.”

“But-”

“Or do you want me to tell Lord Stark of your actions here? I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear what his ward has been doing to helpless girls right under his nose.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and though your eyes are clamped shut as you try to regain composure, you hear Theon stomp away. Thank the gods. You exhale shakily. Silently, you run a check on your body: your head hurts from where it hit the counter, and is bleeding a bit, and your mouth tastes of blood, but you’re okay. Just slightly traumatized. Well, let’s be real. This could be an everyday thing for a Westerosi lady, but for you this is new and terrifying. You feel frightened, but somehow detached. None of it feels real. It’s almost as if your encounter with Theon has happened to someone else. 

You try to clamber to your feet and- well. Wouldn’t you know it. Your erstwhile savior is none other than Tyrion fucking Lannister. You just seem to have a habit of stumbling into important people, don’t you? 

“My lord,” you begin hoarsely. 

It takes a hot minute for you to stand up, and you nearly pass out from the head rush once you straighten your knees. You grimace. Besides the obvious emotional damage Theon’s done, you might have to go to the maester later to get your head checked out. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks. Probably more out of trained courtesies than anything else, but his concern touches you all the same. He looks so young at this point. He doesn’t have his scar from the Battle of the Blackwater, but it’s more than that. He doesn’t have the bitterness of everything that’s happened- killing his father and Shae, his imprisonments, his sham marriage to Sansa- and though his face could not in any way be construed as handsome, it is lighter and more pleasant than the one you are familiar with. It only stings that you can’t keep it this way forever. 

“Maybe? Yes. Probably. But it’s fine.” 

Tyrion looks at you strangely. You suddenly become lost for words. He moves to leave, but you stop him. You can’t just let this moment go to waste. You have to do what you can while you have the opportunity. 

And though you don’t realize it at the moment, when you go to sleep that night, you will realize that all you truly want is to see your characters, your idols, find peace. You want to be the reason that the story ends happily. It’s not just daydreams, now. You have the chance to make peace in the story that has helped you through your own difficult times. For the characters who gave you inspiration when you needed it. What can you do now but repay the favor?

**Author's Note:**

> if you're still here then thank you. i promise this series hasn't been abandoned i'm just like depressed and also busy. who are y'all's fave characters from GOT? lmk in comments


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